Because I do hump the air. Like a rutting dog, except that I don’t even need anyone’s leg for it. It mortifies me, but I can’t seem to stop. It happens subconsciously, when I’m fast asleep at night, or when I’m right between asleep and awake in the morning, using either Dylan’s thigh or a fold of the duvet that normally acts as a buffer between my knees; but it also happens when I’m sitting in my office chair — the one with the ergonomically molded seat that cradles my butt so enticingly — or when I’m queuing at the supermarket checkout, or while I’m reading on the sofa, with the heel of one foot pulled up all the way to my core so that I can… press… right there…
I do that unless, of course, my fiancé colors my ass and thighs crimson so that I’m reminded of my limits wherever I sit, stand, go, or lie.
I un-cross and re-cross my legs and bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a moan — half from pain, half from ache — and interrupt my mom when she starts up with Kasey’s wedding again.
“We actually planned to only go to the registry office, just us and the closest family, sign the thing, touch glasses right there, and then go for a nice dinner and a classy dance, mom.” I grasp my glass of self-made lemonade, lift it to my lips, and say across its chilled rim, “We’re going to leave for Dylan’s dad’s house soon, so we can prepare and hold the spiritual part of the wedding there.”
Mom blinks, stunned into momentary silence. I drink, sipping slowly.
“‘Prepare’? Starting ‘soon’?” She frowns but chuckles. “How big of a wedding are you planning, exactly? Are you going to invite the whole town? Will there be activities? A choreography? Or did you manage to book Ed Sheeran?”
“The wedding itself is not the only thing that needs preparation, Barbara.” Dylan comes up to us and slips a hand to the back of my neck. “The faith has high expectations on anyone who wishes to enter into matrimony. My father has kindly offered guidance. Liz and I are both looking forward to following him.”
My mother listens to him with rapt attention. It used to bother me how she seemed so shamelessly smitten with my handsome boyfriend, turning silly and giggly around him, apparently always on the verge of flashing him some cleavage with a wink. Now I know that he deserves that adoration and more, and that the superficial charm he uses on people is just a front, a treat that he distracts everyone with. The real Dylan is underneath and only I see and know him.
His grip tightens against the skin of my neck as he begins a massage. His other hand goes to the waist of his pants and his thumb hooks into his belt.
His belt. It’s a rich brown. Supple. Real leather.
I press my thighs together against the pang of memories that zaps through my nether regions. Dylan glances downwards to the movement of my lap, then into my eyes.
“So, a wedding according to your faith sounds like a complicated affair, Dylan,” my mom gushes.
“It is actually quite a simple one on the day of. No activities, nor Ed Sheeran, I’m afraid,” Dylan replies without breaking our eye contact. “But there is much to be done in advance.” His fingers knead my muscles. “Preliminary education. Training.”